Monday, October 27, 2014

We hesitate hereinto emancipate the trick—but now think it perfectly consonantto admit—Americagets builtlike this—every time an Eagle singsTake It Easy—overhead in falsettoon a waiting room radio—another built-to-beperpetuallyalmostdone highwaycambered and jack-hammering from suburb to suburb—so much lesssoberand circumspect than the old legendis—nonethelessunanimouslyre-branded—Abraham Lincoln.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Wasn't it all justso lame!—how when push cameto shove—late lastnight at around fivein the would-be ripeclimax of morning—and the moonstomached androtting oldGod of the pastfinally bucked-up againstthat wine red and salty bright

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Dang itAidan—this is a little nutsbut I'm willingto own up—that wherever there's good luckand low-fives and pushes taunting shove—you can probablypretty safely lop off—any of those oldstarchy outlying yucky partsabout love—so long asin return—you just trust them—when each of thosestubborn items begins begging to insist—that you neverever evendare tryto go and cope alone—with the tremendousness ofhowever many other—far offand far more unfavoredmouths like yoursin the wide world one could feed—off of nearly seven years!-worth

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

How can it be?—that nowallthe scree and the bold rubblethat your tough and immodest-ly dead grandmother ever was to you—an off-limits seriesof dark carpeted stiff rooms—plastic and overloadedwith huge oak bowls of odd-numbered and fluke-shaped white- striped penny candies—the vague hazel stubborn reek of an indiscreetliquor cabinet—littered alwayswith portraits,with glossy poker chips, with that chipped amber bust of Franz Liszt—the smell of which was compoundedno less often—by the impressionsof about a hundred million stuckon gummy savoryghosts of somemuch older country—fanning out from within the dank and crampedolive oil kitchen;how can it be—that now allof these ponderous thingsrise to your mind—so weightless-ly quick and easily?wheneveryou so much as—glance down

at the dumbblue vein now jutting out from your own rather stubborn—andincreasingly leathery hand.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

On the bright side—if you weren't so ensconced in such arather stiff and gray nonchalance yourself—you would likelyburn out—long before ever evencoming closeto looking up and appreciating—the morning shift's hugeand shiftlessdaub of clouds—a whole crew just sort of loafing around—so beautifully unruffled—and detached from their vocation—cold-patching all—or some or most—of the holesin a public space that sure didn't seem to need any fixing yesterday—

Monday, October 20, 2014

Right before finally agreeing it might be good see someone—you realizedsomething might be off because—the number of perfect pearlsof autumn rainwater—nowbeaded—still and clear on a fallen yellowspear—of a coolthin and narrow leaf lyingand glinting backup in thequickening sun—wassomewhat disappointingly—one off from your lucky one—

Friday, October 17, 2014

Having—already attendedthe goddamnthing this far—I thought;might as well loweryour rented ear downto this—American ground and just accept—right herethe final verdict as rendered.It's not as if—The Dream is over—I heard—then waitedfor the better part of an hour before finally appending—on my ownas I rosewith a smirkit's more like—the dream is ended.

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Accosted at another—spindling brown and perfectlycharcoal black corner of the westside—by sirensand feeling the proud belaboredthrobbing—of their idling diesel engines;the very first thingI manage to wonder is—not even whetherbut—how wellsuch a mad operationports to network television.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Gnawing—I suspecta good bit moreintently than I meant—on the scrawny thin pith of a toothpickin my kitchen—aloneI supposeduntil presently visitedby this—situationless feeling;of first each and then everyteeming glandbeginning to itch up and down—howlingululating twitching—untila billion bloody vessels dilatingpulsing—then squeezingtighterto strangle tiny drops of salty water—out of both corners of my two big ugly mock eyeballs bugging-out over hot nostrils now bawling after whatever—incredible disaster is fermenting away—over therein a fruitfly fetedcrock in the pale corner.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Don't look up nowrunner—your good old familiar marquee is allof asuddenly missing—as erstwhile boldwhole streetsides full of gold-dappled umbrellasclap shut or else—slap so wet and tempestuously upwards.Although—don'tyou dare regard down below either—where spitupon roads hiss to hear the tiresand the waffle-iron soles of so many other hale hikers'formerly so uninhibited vehicles—now weaklydribbling away their ambitions.

All along the detached diagonal corridor—monday morning's foggy West Town brand of older young men—gauntbutvague and bravely late in rising—stepping eachoutside so cageyto lighta fluke cigarettein near-perfectunisonwith each of his disconsolate neighbors—looks to me—not at all coincidentally—perfect in whatever clothes.

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Strange—but long after the momentis over—I still just can't stop myselffrom graphically picturing—the steel glossy blueeyes and fierce leather-drawn tips of the woman—behind the smartflossy card-table's

spindles of fingers—steadily darningaway in her kitchen—day after next—any! such insolent

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

First full moment of October—softbut adroitly midtempo waltzing streetside with little equanimous Lucy—nosingamong apropos troves of downed brownish leavescrunching, free news-papers crisp and windstrewn and so-on—with such aplombfor hidden soft spotsin the sidewalks on which to whirlthen doubleback and park and piss quick—

and me there no socks and sneakers—chilly looking after her long low back, as ever—feeling tickled, butnot laughing.

Dan Smart is a poet, writer, and musician who currently works as News Editor at online music magazine Tiny Mix Tapes, volunteer editor at nonprofit writing and tutoring center 826CHI, and producer/engineer at ECHO/NORMAL recording studio in Chicago, IL. He received his BA in Creative Writing from Illinois Wesleyan University in 2006, where he has since returned to guest-lecture on poetry on several occasions. Publications include The Los Angeles Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, The Legendary, Cease Cows Magazine, Red Fez, Hooligan Magazine, and poetry/criticism blog Structure And Surprise. His daily-poetry blog, Rhythm Is The Instrument, has been active since 2013 and presently contains over 1,900 works.